


Vox audita

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [17]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie Solomons invents phone sex, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, this really isn't that deep, which is completely historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 12:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: “’Cause you could,” Alfie says. “In theory, yeah, you could just put your Whisky down for a minute, right, and put your hand between your legs and let me tell you what’s gonna happen next.” Tommy’s clutching the armrest of his chair, not entirely sure he knows how to breathe any more.“I’m not gonna do that,” he says.A simple telephone conversation.(Part of a bigger overall AU. You know the drill.)





	Vox audita

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/gifts).

“Ultimately,” Alfie’s voice says on the other end of the line – and Tommy can just see him, dramatically waving an arm through the air in some swooping gesture – “Ultimately, right, the messenger? Yeah? The messenger _knows_ what he is getting himself into, right? He _knows._ They got that saying and everything, don’t they-”

“Right,” Tommy agrees. “Lots of warning signs.”

He takes a sip of Whisky, more to refresh the taste of it on his tongue, really, barely even swallowing anything down. At this point, if he sinks any deeper into his chair, he might end up sliding right down to the floor – but fuck it, it’s late and he’s done for the day, and he can sit however he wants to sit in the privacy of his own fucking house.

“Have to tell you, mate, I’d honestly be more worried, right, if that fucker showed up and was… I don’t even know, expecting special fucking treatment. Yeah? ‘Cause that tells you something ‘bout the state of mind of a man right then and there, doesn’t it-”

“You mean, the hypothetical information is unreliable if the hypothetical fucking messenger _doesn’t_ expect to be shot?”

“Well,” Alfie says, sounding pensive. “Should at least consider the possibility, shouldn’t he? Yeah? ‘Cause how do _I _know, right, from where I am standing, that he’s smart enough to even… tell me the right message? Maybe he’s too stupid to remember, hm? Hm? Maybe he’s easily confused.”

“All messages are unreliable,” Tommy says, which earns him an amused noise.

“Hmmmm,” Alfie says. “Yeah, right. All right, mate. Forgot who I was talking to.”

“That’s flattering,” Tommy deadpans.

“Expecting flattery, were you?” Alfie says, easy as anything, and Tommy can feel his neck grow warm at the undertone in his voice, just a bit, just under the collar. On a whim, he pulls it out, opens up the top button of his shirt. It’s been more than three weeks since the last time they’ve seen each other in person, which is fine, Tommy thinks, it happens. Can’t drive down to London _all_ of the fucking time, after all – it’s not like he hasn’t got things to do right here.

The official reason for their telephone call is the fact that one of Alfie’s business associates wants to buy a racehorse – as an investment, which isn’t something Tommy would ever consider or _recommend,_ if he himself had no idea about horses or the races, which is the case, apparently, as far as Alfie’s acquaintance is concerned.

“That’s a horrible investment,” Tommy’d said and Alfie made a derisive noise over the telephone and said, “Yeah, mate, s’exactly what I told him, innit. But does he wanna listen to me, the voice, right, the _epitome_ of the voice of fuckin’ reason in this scenario? Hm? No. No, is the answer, he does not, yeah… so here we fuckin’ are.”

“Business associate?” Tommy had asked carefully, just to make sure.

“Don’t give a fuck if you wanna rip him off, mate,” Alfie had said immediately. “I’m just the messenger, right. Not fuckin’ responsible for anything bad that does or doesn’t happen.”

Which, for some reason, has led them down a rabbit hole of in-depth discussion of the phrase “don’t shoot the messenger”; because that is how conversations with Alfie tend to go, most of the time, if you decide not to pay attention or try to keep things on track.

“’Cause I can do that, yeah,” Alfie says now and it’s very hard to tell if he’s making fun of Tommy or being serious. “No problem at all.”

“Christ,” Tommy says, gently tapping his fingers against the glass with the Whisky, grinning to himself. “There’s a terrifying thought.”

Alfie makes another noise, low and rumbling, before he says, “You drinking?”

Tommy puts a lazy arm on top of the desk, cradles the glass in a lose grip; it’s still warm from where he was holding it before. There’s barely anything left. Could go for a refill, he thinks.

“Yeah.”

Alfie doesn’t ask him what exactly he’s drinking. Doesn’t have to, probably, because he could guess that with some accuracy at this point. And it should be worrying, Tommy thinks, he should be more unsettled by it… but for some reason, right now, he just can’t bring himself to do that.

“You in your office?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says again.

Alfie knows for a fact that Tommy’s at home as well, because obviously he knows which address he called. Still, it feels strangely intimate, in a way Tommy couldn’t explain. Alfie’s never been here before, so the information about a specific room is not going to mean anything to him, nothing concrete at least… unlike Tommy, who knows exactly where Alfie is right now, down to the color of the wallpaper in the room he uses as an office in _his_ house. The desk there is a lot wider than the one in his bedroom, so he usually puts his cane right on top of it, far off to the right side, without it getting in the way.

A few moments of comfortable silence pass between them. Tommy absentmindedly pushes the glass around on his desk – a few inches to the left with his palm, then back to the starting point with his thumb. He’s relaxed and warm, sprawled out in his chair, limbs feeling sort of heavy – maybe it’s the alcohol, even though he hasn’t had that much Whisky yet.

“Still there?” he murmurs eventually.

“Hmmm?” Alfie says, sounding almost confused, in that way he does sometimes, like he forgot the rest of the world even existed. “I am, yeah. Yeah, mate. Listen… you ever fuck somebody in there?”

Tommy freezes, and then he blinks, and then he makes a face. Then he picks up his glass and downs what’s left of the Whisky.

Then he says, “What?”

“You heard me,” Alfie says, and he has the nerve to sound completely unperturbed, like that is a fucking normal question to ask somebody.

“Why the fuck does that matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Alfie says and yes, Tommy thinks, he seems definitely amused now. “Doesn’t fucking matter in the slightest, does it, because if you really think about it? Yeah? What even really matters in the grand scheme of things-”

“Oh, fuck off,” Tommy says, trying very hard not to find him entertaining – because he’s doing it on purpose, now, being dramatic just because he can. “If you start _that_ fucking discussion we’re going to be here all night.”

“Yeah,” Alfie says, almost a murmur. “Wouldn’t want that, would we.”

And seriously, Tommy thinks, torn between being amused and exasperated, that wasn’t meant to be _innuendo. _Alfie’s fucking impossible sometimes.

“Have I fucked anybody in this house?” he says, answering the question and has to clear his throat before continuing. “Yeah. In this office? No.”

“Not _yet,”_ Alfie says, smug and Tommy rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. “Haven’t fucked anybody in this office yet, yeah, is the correct way of putting that, mate. No ambition at all, hm? It’s a sad state of affairs-”

“So you’re saying… what? You want me to go out right now and find somebody?”

There is a moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Alfie says then, voice pitched low, and it’s astonishing really, Tommy thinks, how he can make a single syllable sound more menacing than an actual death threat. It shivers down Tommy’s spine like an actual, physical sensation, makes him press back against the chair almost involuntarily. _“That_ is exactly what I’m saying, yeah. Picked it up in one.”

“What then?” Tommy says and then, with sudden bravery, decides to add, “You volunteering?”

Alfie hums. “You want me to?”

“Well,” Tommy says, pointedly ignoring the slow pool of arousal in his stomach or how warm his face feels, all of a sudden. It’s a lot easier to seem unaffected over the telephone, thankfully. Alfie can’t see him, so he never has to know. “Unless I’m missing something, you’re not actually _here_ right now.”

“That is true, mate,” Alfie says solemnly. Tommy can basically see him nodding along. “It’s a shame, innit? It’s a terrible injustice-”

“So you see the problem, right?”

There is another short pause.

“I don’t, actually, mate, no,” Alfie says then. “Not at all, if I’m perfectly honest.”

“What?” Tommy says, a bit confused, wondering if they’re even talking about the same thing anymore. Except… with Alfie, it _feels_ like you’re having two different conversations at times, or maybe even five different conversations, and it _seems_ like he’s paying no attention at all, but the truth is, he always, _always_ does – he’s listening and he knows exactly what he is saying and where the whole thing is headed.

“I fail to see the problem,” Alfie says, overexaggerated, like the real reason Tommy doesn’t understand what he means is that he is having trouble with the English language. “’Cause you could, in theory, yeah, you could just put your Whisky down for a minute, right, and put your hand between your legs and let me tell you what’s gonna happen next.”

Tommy’s clutching the armrest of his chair, not entirely sure he knows how to breathe any more.

“I’m not gonna do that,” he says.

“No?”

“No.”

“Right, okay. Shame. ‘Cause I, yeah, I happen to think you’d really want to.”

And the thing is… _fuck._ Tommy _doesn’t_ want to do that, because he didn’t even think about that, didn’t ever consider that a possibility, because… why the fuck would he? What’s the fucking point? Alfie isn’t here, they’re not even in the same city at the moment.

“I don’t,” he says – except he can already hear the lie in his voice, and on his end, Alfie makes another amused noise.

“Yeahhh, mate,” he says, drawing it out. “I really think you do. Go on then. Hm? S’really not that complicated.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy says, which is the worst response, really, because they both know it means he basically agrees with what Alfie is saying. He puts his free hand on his thigh, feeling ridiculous, even though it’s a completely normal gesture. Nothing out of the ordinary, apart from the sudden, burning knowledge that his cock would be right there, underneath the fabric, if he only moved his hand a bit. They’re silent now, which is worse than Alfie talking, because now Tommy can hear himself breathing.

He didn’t pay any attention before, which probably meant he was breathing normal then, but he can’t tell if he’s still doing that now or if his breathing has sped up. He very carefully moves his hand up, towards his fly. Runs his thumb over the button there, which has no fucking right to make the muscles in his legs go tense, all by themselves, because he can’t even actually _feel_ the touch.

“You done yet?” Alfie says and thank fuck the amusement is gone from his voice – Tommy’s not sure what he would have done if he thought Alfie was laughing at him right now. Probably hung up immediately and died from embarrassment right after that.

“Shut up,” he says; can’t help the shuddering inhale he makes when he actually unbuttons his fly. Pushes his hand inside very slowly and carefully, like he’s never actually done this before, like this is completely new territory. And in a way, he thinks, clutching the telephone, it absolutely fucking is. He’s pushing down a bit with his hand, can feel himself slowly getting hard already.

_“Now_ you’re done,” Alfie says, with that unflinching certainty he always has when it comes to… _this, _fucking, whatever it is they’re doing right now. It’s almost scary, how he just seems to _know_ certain things, about Tommy, about what to do and what to say, about what works and what doesn’t – or it would be, if it didn’t feel so good, if it didn’t make Tommy weak with relief, sometimes.

“So fucking what,” Tommy says, petulant. “What if I am.”

“Nothing,” Alfie says, calm as anything. “Feels better, yeah? Doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Tommy says, which is a complete and utter lie, because his hand is already curling around his cock, pulling it up against his stomach, covered by his palm. He’s rubbing at it, slowly, lazily, spreading his legs a bit more, feet planted firmly on the ground.

“No?” Alfie says, mock surprised.

“No.”

“Hmmm,” Alfie says. “Well that is very strange, mate, innit, ‘cause I feel like I have to tell you, right, that for some _very_ strange reason, yeah… you really _sound_ like you’re feeling better? Hm?”

“You’re imaging things,” Tommy says, inhaling and then exhaling deeply through his nose. Grips his cock and moves his hand up and down, just once, just to get some friction.

“Funny, that,” Alfie says, and Tommy’s eyes want to close immediately at his tone, head tipping back against the backrest of the chair all by itself – because there is a certain tone to his voice now, an undercurrent of… _something,_ of authority, of power, maybe even inevitability. Tommy couldn’t explain it if he tried for a million years, just that it _is_ and that it works. “’Cause you’re making the same sounds you always make when somebody gets a hand on you, mate.”

It’s a shock, almost, him saying it out loud, which is fucking ridiculous, because Tommy _knew_ where this was going – and also, it’s not like Alfie doesn’t run his mouth when they’re actually in bed together. On the contrary, Alfie has said things like that and worse, because he likes to talk, and Tommy secretly really likes it when he does, and they’re both getting off on it, but… _still._ For some inexplicable reason it feels even more indecent hearing over the phone, almost like it’s amplified.

“Somebody?” Tommy says.

“Well,” Alfie admits. “Me, mostly. Point being, yeah? You’re breathing goes completely different, mate. And you’re always trying to keep it even, yeah, don’t think I don’t fuckin’ notice that, you’re always trying so hard, but you’re not being subtle.”

“Oh,” Tommy manages. “You fucking notice, do you?”

“I do, yeah,” Alfie says. “I do notice. Notice a lot of other things, too, if you can believe that.”

“No, you fucking don’t,” Tommy says, instead of saying _“Go on then, keep talking” _but the end result is going to be the same regardless and they both know it.

“Your legs always go first,” Alfie says. “Yeah? Probably knew that already… always try to stay so fuckin’ composed at first, don’t you, even when you’re naked on your back, right, face, hands, everything, like you’re in control of the whole operation – ‘cept for how easy it is, yeah, how _fuckin’ easy_ it is to get between your legs… like you’re just waiting for a chance to spread ‘em, hm? Yeah? ‘Cause there’s never any resistance there at all, mate, both know there isn’t-”

_“Fuck,”_ Tommy say, breathless.

His face feels like it’s on fire and it’s hard to swallow. What makes it worse is the _way_ Alfie is telling him all of these things – voice a low, intimate murmur, but he’s not trying to be seductive or even provocative; sounds so matter of fact about it all that Tommy fucking _aches_ with it, turned-on and embarrassed at the same time.

“Yeah, well,” Alfie says, sounding almost good-natured. “There’s an idea, innit. ‘Cause you love doing that as well, right, don’t even try and tell me you don’t-”

“I don’t,” Tommy says immediately. His cock is smearing pre-come all over his wrist, desperately hard, hand restricted by his clothes. He gets up on unsteady legs, tugs his suspenders off with one hand – has to switch the phone around to do it, and Alfie probably knows what’s going on, even if he can’t hear everything, he _knows,_ because apparently he knows fucking everything – pushes everything down to mid-thigh and sinks back into his chair. Arousal shivers through him at the mere thought of what he must look like right now.

If anybody could see him like this, _Christ._

“Yeahh, you do,” Alfie says, and it almost sounds like a threat, like he’s losing his patience with the way Tommy keeps being contrary; and suddenly Tommy fiercely, irrationally wishes he’d be here. Calm and safe and solid, his hands all over Tommy, seeing right through him at the same time, kissing him to keep him from trying to deny everything. “You fuckin’ love it – s’almost a shame, right, that you’re insisting on using your brain for a living. Hm? ‘Cause you could just stay in bed and get fucked all day, till you’re too fucked-out to even move… ‘cause you’d fuckin’ love it-”

Tommy makes a small, moaning sound before he can stop himself and Alfie stops talking. There is a small pause, before he says, very quietly, “Yeahhh, like that. Hm? That’s what you fuckin’ sound like, each and every time… sound so fuckin’ pretty, I can’t even tell you-”

“Thought that’s what you were doing,” Tommy manages, and he’s panting now, because he’s fisting his cock and moving, _moving_ his hand, stroking himself; can’t even bear to let go to spit in his hand to make everything more smooth, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because _Jesus,_ there’s pre-come everywhere, his fingers slick with it. 

Alfie fucking laughs at that, in that low, raspy way he does sometimes and Tommy’s cock _throbs_ at the sound, arousal pulsing through him, and _Christ,_ fuck, now his hips are moving too, pushing his cock into his own fist.

“I was, yeah,” Alfie says. “Good of you to notice, mate. Decent thing to do.”

“Shut up,” Tommy pants, because it’s either that or moan again.

“I could, yeah,” Alfie agrees easily. “Could do that. Or, what I could do instead, yeah, what I think I’m gonna do, right, is tell you some more about all the pretty noises you make? Hm? You wanna hear all about that, mate?”

Tommy makes another sound, can’t even help it, in the back of his throat, low and frantic.

“Yeah, like that,” Alfie says and he almost sounds approving, the bastard, like Tommy just confirmed his point. “Exactly like that, yeah, fuckin’ hell, you sound so _pretty, _you have no bloody idea… gonna draw it out, next time, hm, make you wait for it – ‘cause that is when it gets really good, right, once you really need to come, when you’re fuckin’ desperate for it… ‘cause then you can’t fuckin’ shut up to save your live-”

_“Oh,_ Christ, fuck- _Christ-”_ Tommy moans, hips working, whole body moving into it and comes and fucking _comes. _All over himself, hand and thighs and clothes, shuddering through waves of pleasure with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. Forgets to move the telephone out of the way, so Alfie is bound to hear the whole bloody thing in glorious detail.

“Fuck,” he says finally, completely out of breath. _“Fuck.”_

“All right?” Alfie says, but he sounds fucking smug about it. Tommy can tell.

“You…” he says, trying to get his bearings. His shirt is sticking to his back with sweat and there’s come on the chair as well. “What the fuck. What… I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Me?” Alfie says, pretending to be indignant. “Didn’t do anything, did I? Yeah? Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I hate you,” Tommy tells him. God, he feels good. Sticky and strange and maybe a bit embarrassed, and he’s definitely not looking forward to cleaning up, but… fuck. That was satisfying.

“Mh-hmm,” Alfie says. “’Course you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> The only reason this exists is because [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx) put this dumb idea in my head and I refuse to take sole responsibility.  
(Also... there is a very subtle reference to the _other_ telephone story in there. Let's see if anyone catches it.)
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
